


From Phoenix Ashes

by aruza



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Prophecy, Alternate Universe, Gen, M/M, Manipulative!Tom, Slow Build, WWII divergent, War with Grindelwald, auror!Harry, gen - Freeform, possible slash, powerful!Harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-16 20:57:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9289316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aruza/pseuds/aruza
Summary: In 1945, for the second and last time in his life, Dumbledore chose what was easy over what was right. But in a world without Dumbledore, nobody else remained to stop Grindelwald--and so nobody did. Enter Harry Potter, child of prophecy, forty years later.





	1. The Future Awaits

**Author's Note:**

> AU-verse where Tom essentially controls the Ministry, but you'll have to wait and see to figure out what other changes there have been ;) Sorry for any formatting errors; this is my first time posting. The next few chapters are pre-written, but I can't make any guarantees past that since the semester is starting. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

 Unsurprisingly, it was Hermione who first brought up the topic of the future.

It was a quiet day in the second half of Harry, Ron, and Hermione’s seventh year. The trio sprawled in a corner of the common room, alight with watery gray light, buried in rolls of parchment, quills, and textbooks, but even Hermione had given up studying for the moment, in favor of engaging in some ‘light reading’. They were graduating in a little less than three months—and in a little less than three months, they would be sitting their N.E.W.T.s.

Correspondingly, these days, seventh years were a rare and endangered sight, easily spooked by daylight and whose natural habitat was the library. Apart from Harry, Ron, and Hermione, none could be found in the common room.

“Bishop to C3,” said Ron. “Check.”

“King to D1,” said Harry. The piece didn’t move.

“Bugger off,” said the King, sneering. “Ain’t no way I’m going there!”

“Yeah, mate,” agreed Harry’s sole remaining pawn.

Ron sniggered. “Just admit defeat already,” he taunted.

Harry scowled. But as it turned out, he didn’t have to, for at that very moment Hermione snapped her book shut and with a tap, Vanished the chess set.

Ron leapt to his feet. “Bloody hell, Hermione! What do you think you’re doing?”

“Being the responsible one here,” she shot back. “We’re supposed to be studying right now,” she groaned.

“Don’t think about it,” advised Harry sympathetically. Ron nodded along absentmindedly,

Hermione began flipping through her planner. “I can’t! These tests could determine our whole futures. Actually—have you two thought about what you’re going to do after Hogwarts at all? Our career reviews are next week!”  

Harry _had_ actually thought about what he wanted to become; in fact, it might be better to say that it was predetermined—there was no other conceivable route for him.

“I’m going to be an Auror,” said Harry.

“Yeah, thought so,” agreed Ron distractedly, who was mumbling and jabbing his wand at where the chess set had been. “Where’d it go?” he demanded.

“Honestly, Ron,” huffed Hermione, who then ignored him in her well-practiced manner. “And Harry—I thought I heard you say Auror.”

“I did,” responded Harry.

“Are you serious? That’s practically a death sentence!” Hermione said, brow creasing.

“You’re exaggerating,” said Ron to Hermione, waving a hand dismissively. “More power to you, I say, mate! Yes!” he exclaimed. The chess set had reappeared.

“Shut up, Ron,” said Hermione.

 She sat up ramrod straight and hugged a crimson and gold bolster tight. “…This isn’t about your parents, is it?”

“No offense, Hermione, but it’s really none of your business.” said Harry evenly,

“You can’t stay in the past forever—think about how your parents would have wanted you to live your life! Besides, what about Ginny?”

“They would’ve wanted me to figure out who killed them. And don’t bring Ginny into this.”

“There’s a _war_ going on—they would’ve wanted you to _be safe—_ “

“That’s easy for you to say! You still have parents.”

“And mine wouldn’t want me to perform suicidal stunts especially if they were already dead!”

“—Guys,” said Ron weakly, looking between the two as they volleyed retorts.

“—End of discussion, Hermione,” Harry yelled; he could feel the flush of blood rising up his neck and into his ears. It was totally silent—he could feel Ron’s shocked stare boring into him even as he glared at the carpet trying to regain equilibrium. “It’s none of your business,” he said quietly.

“I’m just trying to look out for you,” said Hermione. Her voice was stiff. “I’m not going to let this go. But what about you, Ron—I suppose you haven’t given the slightest thought to your future.”

“Come off it, Hermione,” said Ron, shrinking back into his armchair, still looking between Harry and Hermione. “You sound like my mum. We’ve got ages until school ends,” he joked awkwardly.

“Three months isn’t ages!”

“Yes it is,” responded Ron.

As they bickered behind him, Harry stuffed his things into his bag, ripping parchment and crushing quills in the process, and stomped down to the dorms

“Alohomora,” he snarled at his trunk; the lock whirred open. He shoved his hand in the helter-skelter pile of textbooks, potions kit, socks, and robes, feeling around for the tiny catch on the bottom, and pulled out a shiny purple book.

“ _Auror Academy—Your Path to Success,”_ it read in giant yellow, uppercase font on the cover. Harry climbed onto the four poster and drew the curtains shut before cracking the book open. Despite what Hermione said, he was ready for his future—in fact he could hardly _wait._

* * *

 

The next few weeks passed smoothly and steadily and Hermione seemed to have forgotten the whole affair. But a strange occurrence a month later confirmed the exact opposite.

It was a beautiful morning in the Great Hall—early enough that it wasn’t too crowded but late enough that a couple people dotted the tables here and there like pebbles strewn across a garden path. Chatter was quiet and restrained, and limited to small bunches of two or three.

Harry himself had come down to breakfast without Ron and Hermione, for once. He’d woken up early, and so, restless and bored, decided to go without them. Dean Thomas—another early riser apparently—gave him a sleepy grunt as he walked past the Gryffindor table; luckily for Dean, Harry didn’t feel like company and so he picked a seat a couple spots down.

He shoveled bacon and eggs on the plate and was in the middle of downing a goblet of pumpkin juice when a hand clapped him on the back and boomed, “Harry!”

Harry coughed and sputtered, dripping pumpkin juice down his chin and onto his pants. Mopping at himself with a napkin, he complained, “Sirius! What the hell?”

“Just checking in, pup.” Sirius smirked.

“You could’ve picked a better time,” Harry complained, finally remembering his wand and trying to extract the stain.

“Nah,” Sirius disagreed cheerfully. “But listen, we have to talk. I heard something interesting from one of your friends the other day—“

Harry set down his fork with a loud clink against the plate. “Hermione,’ he said flatly, predicting what his godfather was about to bring up. “Look, I really don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh, no, no, no—you’re not getting away that easily. We have to talk about this. An Auror? Really?”

“It’s what I want to do, Sirius.”

“I’m not saying you don’t, I’m just saying it’s a bad idea.” Sirius swung himself onto the bench by Harry; Dean peered at them curiously, probably wondering why their Transfiguration teacher had stopped by the Gryffindor table.

“You think it’s a bad idea, you mean.”

Sirius coughed. “Because it is. Aurors are great people, don’t get me wrong—it’s just not the best profession for you.”

“What do you mean? I’ve gotten an O in Defense every year! Besides—I have to do this.”

Dean, in the background, gawped at the scene, but became suddenly engrossed by his empty plate when Harry switched his eyes to him.

“Come on,” he said, scowling. The Great Hall was slowly starting to fill up with students; out of the corner of his eye he spotted Seamus heading towards them with Lavender hanging onto him. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

“Yes—good idea,” said Sirius, looking slightly relieved. “My office?”

“Fine.”  

In the Defense Tower, they headed towards a portrait of a scantily clad Valkyrie. Sirius leered at it before flinging open the door behind it. _Un_ -typically, it flung itself back, smacking Sirius in the face.

 “Bloody hell,” moaned Sirius, stumbling back.

An unbelievably ugly, scraggly elf staggered out from behind the door—evidently he’d been the cause of the rebound.

“Master,” it croaked resentfully.

Sirius swore. “Kreacher, what in Merlin’s name—bugger off, you nasty little thing!”

“Oh, Mistress,” Kreacher blubbered down to a tiny portrait he clutched. Though Sirius had long ago destroyed Walburga’s portrait at Grimmauld Place, Kreacher had mysteriously spirited this one out from somewhere.

 “Shut up,” ordered Sirius. Kreacher slunk back into the office and rolled himself up into a tiny miserable little ball. “I swear, one of these days…”

“What’s he doing here,” asked Harry. There was no love lost between Sirius and Kreacher—in fact, the elf usually stayed at Grimmauld.

“I’m getting Grimmauld redone,” answered Sirius, falling into a plump red and gold armchair. “And nobody else wants the damn elf. So he’s here.” He flicked his wand at Kreacher casually, freezing and muting him.

Sirius’ office was unlike any other in the school—McGonagall probably had a heart attack every time she saw it. Luckily for her though, professors visited the Headmistress’ office, not the other way around.

Every inch on the walls was covered with strange and random memorabilia. Quidditch stars zoomed from poster to poster, all around the room in a dizzying swirl of motion; a series of ads featuring the Weird Sisters’ next show enshrined a corner; a glass bubble floated in another corner, featuring a mouse that morphed into progressively stranger incarnations before resetting.

A set of giant golden Gobstones dominated Sirius’ desk; the little remaining was covered by various pranking knick-knacks confiscated from students.

 “So,” said Sirius. “Didn’t we take care of this two years ago? I thought I did career reviews with all the fifth years and I don’t remember anything about wanting to be an Auror.”

“You forgot to do them my year,” reminded Harry.

“Oh. Oops,” said Sirius merrily. “Yes, I remember now. I think I made up something to give Minerva. _Minerva._  It’s still weird calling her that, even after seven years. She was my Transfiguration teacher, you know.”

“Yeah. Wait, what did you put down for mine?”

“How am I supposed to remember? Dragon trainer, potioneer, Witches Weekly model, doxy exterminator, take your pick. But I think I put Longbottom down for dragon hunter. Or something.” Sirius leaned back with hands behind his head.

Poor Neville. Hopefully nobody actually looked at those things. “So what did Hermione tell you,” demanded Harry.

“Not much. Just that you wanted to be an Auror,” responded Sirius.

“What’s so wrong about that?”

Sirius sat up and leaned forward. “It’s _dangerous,_ Harry!”

“Who are you?” asked Harry incredulously. “Since when have you cared about danger? You were an Auror before coming to Hogwarts!”

“Okay, Harry. Let me be straight with you. This kind of danger is on a whole new level—I was there—I know. Rookie casualties are on the rise. With your kind of control on magic, you’d be lucky to pass basic training let alone survive out there.”

“I got an O in Defense,” repeated Harry sullenly, avoiding Sirius’ earnest eyes.

“You’re talented—nobody can deny that. But you also can’t control your magic output reliably enough. Overpowered spellcasting might be good enough for the classroom, but you’d be a liability on the battlefield. And that,” declared Sirius, pointing at Harry, “is why you wouldn’t pass basic training.”

“Overpowered spellcasting? That’s your reason?” asked Harry incredulously. “What’s so bad about that?”

“Just take my word for it,” advised Sirius. “Besides, somebody new is taking over the Auror Department—Tom Riddle. He’ll push for more Dark spells in the curriculum and then there will be an absolutely zero chance of you passing.”

Tom Riddle—he was infamous. The man had begun his illustrious career as the Defense Professor at Hogwarts (typically the endgame of most scholars), been in every department of the Ministry, either rising to the top in less than a year, or promoted straight to Head. The only position he hadn’t gunned for was Minister and Undersecretary, to the bewilderment of many. The man was a genius—everything he headed met with unparalleled success.

Harry scowled. Just his luck. “How do you know Riddle’s going to make Dark magic a requirement?”

“Insider info from Bella,” said Sirius. “Besides, Riddle’s an infamous proponent of Dark magic—and nobody points any fingers. They love him. I don’t trust him myself though. Sorted into Slytherin—he’ll be an evil conniving bastard if the rest of my family is anything to go by. _They_ all love him too, by the way.”

The two sat in silence for a moment. Harry stared at the Gobstones on the desk before quietly saying, “There’s nothing you can do to change my mind. I’m going to go for it.”

“Merlin—why are you so set on this? Become a pro Quidditch player instead—we haven’t seen a more talented Seeker at Hogwarts in a century! And that’s saying a lot.”

Harry reeled in shock; he clutched at the arms of the chair. “ _Why am I so set on this?_ What do you mean, _why am I so set on this?_ Did you _forget_ that your best friends were murdered?” His nails dug little white crescents into his palms..

“Nobody’s doing anything,” Harry spat. “They’ve promised us mum and dad’s attackers for years—and nothing has happened! I have to take this into my own hands. If not me, then _who?_ Not you.”

Sirius flinched back, mouth parting little. For a second he looked so stricken that a worm of guilt burrowed its way into Harry but then it was gone.

“I haven’t forgotten—there’s no way I could forget,” said Sirius finally in a low, rough voice. “But you have to let it go, Harry. They’re gone.”

“No,” said Harry. “I’m going to do it. You and Hermione sure had a chat, didn’t you? That’s what she said too. But you know what, I don’t care. I don’t care.”

Something in his expression must have shown Sirius the strength of his resolve, the absolute conviction he possessed, because the dark haired man sitting across from him heaved out a long, tired breath.

“Okay. Fine. But you have to promise me something.” Sirius leaned forward again, holding Harry’s gaze with uncharacteristically grave gray eyes. “Do _not_ get involved with the business on the Continent.”

“Fine,” agreed Harry easily. James and Lily Potter’s case shouldn’t have anything to do with Grindlewald’s War.

“I’m serious here, Harry. Very, very serious. I want a vow—as in Unbreakable.”

“Sirius!” An Unbreakable Vow would bind Harry for the rest of either his or Sirius’ life—whichever came to an end first. If he made this vow, no matter what happened, he would _never_ be able to join the fight—ever. He swallowed. The man’s stare was unrelenting.

“This is insane,” said Harry. “You are being extreme.”  This overprotectiveness was getting ridiculous—what right did Sirius have to demand an Unbreakable Vow from him?

“I might not act like a proper guardian all the time but I can put my foot down.”

“I’m seventeen—I don’t need your permission to become an Auror,” Harry reminded him quietly.

“Yes—you’re already seventeen. I would hate doing it, but I could make it impossible for you to become one. The Black family name carries a lot of weight. You can’t get involved on the Continent.”

The quiet was deafening. Then, the familiar hum of magic roared in his ears, making them pop and the objects on Sirius’ desk began to rattle ominously.

“If you’d sink that low,” said Harry quietly, “then why would you even let me become at Auror? Are you going to be my parent forever? News flash—you won’t ever replace Mum and Dad.”

“Stop it,” ordered Sirius sharply, leaning forward and slapping him lightly upside the head. “I’m telling you, this is a last resort. I don’t want to control you, Harry, but you have to do this to give me some peace of mind. Just trust me.”

Harry gave him a long, hard look.

“Fine,” he agreed at last. “Who will be our binder?”

“Remus,” said Sirius, nodding his head. “Let me get him. Defense with the firsties doesn’t start till eleven.”

Starting the fireplace, Sirius threw a handful of Floo powder in and stuck his head inside. The flames roared up bright emerald green; Harry heard faintly:

“Sirius? What are you doing?”

“Remus, come here for a second....”

Moments later, Remus was thrown onto the hearth. The werewolf climbed to his feet and brushed himself off.

“Remus. We need you to bind us for an Unbreakable Vow,” said Sirius. “I’m going to make Harry promise not to get involved in the war _if_ he becomes an Auror.”

“Tell him he’s being unreasonable,” said Harry to Remus.

But the two men exchanged looks and Remus said to Harry, “Sorry—no can do. I think it’s a good precaution. But you’ll be careful, won’t you Sirius?”

“Don’t worry, Moony. I’ll leave some fail-safes,” said Sirius. “Okay, Harry, on the carpet now.”

They kneeled across from each other clasping right hands; Remus touched his wand to them.

“Will you, Harry, promise to avoid Grindlewald’s War in your duties as an Auror?”

“I will.” A tongue of brilliant red flame streaked out and bound their hands together like a red-hot wire. It burned.

“And will you, Harry, promise to use all legal means available to you to accomplish this?”

“I will.”

A second stream of fire spouted out of Remus’ wand and braided itself with the first.

“Well, that’s that then,” said Sirius, pulling his hand loose. The red ropes binding them shattered into tiny drips of flame, dissipating silently just before touching the ground.

“I’m leaving now. Before you come up with anything else.”

Sirius grinned and held up both hands. “No, I’m all out. Don’t worry—but hey—good luck. You’ll need it.”

Harry prodded Kreacher out of the way and slammed the door on them.

The first class of the day was N.E.W.T. Potions with Slughorn. There was nobody in the classroom when he got there—not even Slughorn. But there was still thirty minutes until class begun. He slammed his bookbag down into the seat next to him and rummaged through it for the Auror Academy booklet again; he’d been reading it obsessively ever since it had arrived by mail order a couple weeks ago.

_Requirements:_

_5 N.E.W.T.s –Outstanding or Exceeds Expectations_

_Basic dueling proficiency (assessed at entrance examination)_

_A grade of Exceeds Expectations and above on the entrance examination_

_*Information tested in the examination will be covered in this booklet_

His eyes scanned over the words but nothing penetrated; Sirius’ words kept passing through his head. The pages crinkled in his fists. With a frustrated groan, he tossed it back onto the table. What the hell was he doing?

At heart he knew Sirius was right.

Twenty minutes later, Slughorn bustled in. “Harry, my boy,” he boomed. “Ready for another delightful day of Potions?”

“Yes sir,” he responded dully. Potions wasn’t a great favorite of his, but Slughorn loved him for his mother—Lily Evans, ex potions extraordinaire.

By the time Hermione entered the classroom with Ron, Harry had worked himself back up again to face her; a great surge of irritation filled him at the sight of her.

“ _Hermione_ ,” said Harry.

“Alright, I know what this is about,” she said. “And before you start, it was for your own good! And Sirius would’ve found out anyways. Career reviews are next week, need I remind you?”

“Just butt out already,” he burst out heatedly. “I told you, my mind’s already made up!” He hated to admit it, but sometimes he could see everybody else’s point: Hermione _always_ thought she knew best and _always_ had to get her way.

“Are you sure about that?” she asked smugly, dangling a thick blue and red envelope between her fingers.

Ron snatched it from her. “ _Brilliant!_ Hermione, you’ve been holding out on us,” he accused, pointing a finger at her.

Momentarily mollified, Harry said, “What’s that?”

“McGonagall passed it on to me this morning at breakfast for you—“

Fingers eagerly scrabbling at the wax seal, Ron interrupted, “That’s a scouting envelope! Here—look—“ He pulled out thick parchment emblazoned with a British flag at the top and waved it at Harry. “You’ve been scouted by the National Quidditch Team!”

“ _What?”_

A heavy hand fell onto Harry’s shoulder. Slughorn had appeared out of nowhere. “Is that a recruitment letter I see? Congratulations, dear boy! I always knew you would come to great things! But of course, you aren’t the only Quidditch player I know—say hello to Leandra for me next year,” the man said happily, rubbing his enormous, shiny bald head.

“Thanks sir,” said Harry, dazed, snatching the letter from Ron and stashing it away. He felt a little stupefied—professional Quidditch—he didn’t think he was _that_ good, and yet here it was. Of course, he loved flying. Zooming at the ground at breakneck speeds, rushing through the clammy clouds, racing against the opposing Seeker for the Snitch—he pictured himself, clad in the blue white and red uniform of the British Team, in front of thousands of screaming fans at the World Cup…

 _Blast it!_ Harry forced his thoughts away from those tantalizing images and unpacked his potions kit. _What happened to your resolve,_ he asked himself.

Hermione shifted his book bag from the chair and slid in next to him a couple minutes later, after Slughorn had propelled his great mass back up to the lectern. “You don’t look too thrilled.”

“What? No, I’m fine,” he said defensively. “It’s great.”

Ron’s jaw hung agape. “Are you joking? It’s more than great! It’s brilliant! Fantastic!”

“Yes,” agreed Hermione, watching him carefully. “It’s fantastic.”

“I’m not taking it,” Harry scowled.

He seemed to have broken Ron—the redhead turned to look at him, mouth flapping open and shut soundlessly before saying, quite loudly, “ _Are you joking?_ This is the opportunity of a lifetime. I’d kill for that!”

Up at the front of the classroom, Slughorn frowned at Ron; the class turned to stare. “Now, now, quiet down back there Mr. Weasley. I know it’s very exciting but one must exercise restraint.”

“Sorry, sir,’ muttered Ron absently. Ink splattered his notes in large, black blotches when he pressed down too hard with his quill

After a few minutes of quiet note-taking, Hermione whispered, “You have to try it out, Harry. This is the perfect job for you.”

“Stop it already, Hermione. I know what I’m going to do,” he hissed back, more than a little crossly.

Hermione didn’t reply; she sniffed and with a rustle of bushy brown hair, turned back to the front of the classroom where Slughorn stroked his gold buttons fondly and reminisced about his various eminent acquaintances.

Ron refused to talk to him for the rest of the day, shaking his head in disbelief whenever they encountered each other and complaining to the rest of the Quidditch team. Even McGonagall herself looked at him askance when he, being asked, told her of his unchanged plans—though maybe he shouldn’t be so surprised, given her enthusiasm for all things Quidditch.

* * *

Three months passed in a flurry of notes, review sessions, and endless examinations. Hermione confronted the N.E.W.T.s with her by-now usual aplomb—she’d finally grown out of test nerves—and Ron with his usual queasy faintness, but both made it through relatively intact. Harry himself felt relatively confident. Somehow, with Hermione’s help, he’d pulled through the practicals and had managed to cast most of the spells.

Outstanding? Perhaps not. But Exceeds Expectations? He hoped so.

The final day of school felt strangely nostalgic to him. He’d spent seven long years in Hogwarts’ much-loved, twisty passages, shifting staircases, and multitude of hidden rooms. As Harry rummaged under the bed for the last of his things, he said to Ron quietly,

“It’s pretty weird, isn’t it? We won’t be coming back.”

Ron grinned back at him. “I’m definitely not going to miss some things. Like Snape. But me, you, and Hermione, we’ll still see each other. It’s not the end.”

“That’s strangely sage, coming from you,” came Hermione’s voice from behind them. Harry banged his head on the four-poster extracting himself.

“Hermione!” Harry said, rubbing his head. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he added.

She grinned mischievously, propping one hand against her hip. “Well, what are the professors going to do about it? Expel me?”

Ron stared in wonder. “Who are you, and where were you the last seven years?”

“Honestly, Ronald,” she huffed.

Harry grinned. “So, what are you doing up here?”

“Oh, just to help you pack. I’m done already, but I figured you two would save it until the last minute,” she replied, motioning at the unfolded piles of clothing strewn across the dormitory. “Look, even Dean and Seamus are done!”

Ron threw a shirt at her half-heartedly. “Lay off.”

Hermione snorted at that but flicked her wand; the piles of clothing floated into the air and rippled a little as a hot wind passed through, removing all wrinkles, before folding and levitating themselves into the open trunks.

“Brilliant,” said Harry admiringly. “But if that’s how you were done so fast, then you can’t yell at us. Where’d you learn how to do that?”

“Oh, here and there,” Hermione responded smugly. “But I’ll leave the rest for you two.”

“Come on,” he complained, but to no avail, as Hermione took residence at one of the neighboring beds and proceeded to watch them cram the rest of their things in before accompanying them to the Closing Feast.

Hogwarts had no official graduation ceremony, but all the same, when the Seventh Years’ were asked to stand, he received a few congratulatory acknowledgements as they filed out. Hagrid gave him several stout pats on the shoulder while snorting mightily into a handkerchief the size of a pillowcase; McGonagall cracked a sharp, narrow-lipped smile with a peculiar gleam in her eyes; Sirius, of course, whooped; even Snape made a constipated nod.

When the trio—plus Ginny—got off the Hogwarts Express for the last time, they stood in respectful silence for a moment, amid the whistles and grinding of the train, the hubbub of students meeting families, and the various hoots, croaks, and hisses of indignant pets.

“Well, this is it then,” said Harry wistfully.  
“Yes,” agreed Hermione. “But like Ron said, it’s not the end, you know. Ron—are you— _crying?_ ”

“No,” blubbered the redhead in question. “I’m allergic to cats—especially _that_ damned cat.”

“Stop blaming everything on Crookshanks,” scolded Hermione, hoisting her beloved pet’s crate onto her suitcase. “It’s okay to be sad.”

“Is ickle Wonniekins sad?” one of the Weasley twins mocked. The two had popped up from nowhere, but they heralded the arrival of the whole tribe—even Fred, George, and Bill had shown up.

“Oh, Ron, we’re so _proud_ of you,” wailed Mrs. Weasley, throwing herself onto him. The twins smirked.

“We’re very _proud_ of you too, dear brother,” the other twin—probably George—said.

A small, warm hand slipped into Harry’s own. Ginny leaned against him and pulling him to the side, said quietly, “Just wait for me, won’t you? I know we won’t be able to see each other much next year but we always have Hogsmeade weekends.

“And breaks,” replied Harry, squeezing her hand.  

“Just a year,” whispered Ginny. She pulled him down for a chaste peck and rested her head against his shoulder.

The couple had only been dating since sixth year, but Harry felt sure that he would never like a girl as much as he liked Ginny; there was a warm comradeship that was unlike anything he’d ever known.

The two lingered a few minutes longer before they were forced to separate.

“Hate to interrupt, pup, but we should probably leave soon,” said Sirius, who had appeared—literally—out of nowhere at some point earlier.

“Yeah,” agreed Harry, extracting himself from Ginny. “Keep in touch,” he told her, Hermione, and Ron.

“Yeah, mate. See you over the summer,” said Ron.

“Of course, Harry,” was Hermione’s answer.

“No need to even ask,” scoffed Ginny. “If you didn’t, I would hex you.”

Harry looked back wistfully at the panorama for as long as he could, before he and Sirius twisted on the balls of their feet and it all vanished into a blur of crushing colors.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. A Little Less Magical

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everybody! Bit of a set up chapter this time, but tried to keep it interesting.

Diagon Alley in early summer was deserted. There were no two ways about it, and not a soul to be seen in the usually cheerful, buzzing nest of activity. Storefronts glowed, door propped open, and giant purple ads shouted their messages (“Live a GNOME-FREE LIFE with our GNOME-WHACKERS”) just as he remembered from last August and all the Augusts before, but there were no customers to be served.

“Merlin, hello there,” came Tom’s voice from behind Harry. “Wasn’t expecting you.”

 “Oh, hello, Tom. Sorry about that,” Harry said abashedly, turning to face the bartender. “Are you alright? I didn’t think anybody would be here.” He motioned at the lee to the side of the brick wall that was the portal between the Leaky Cauldron and Diagon Alley.

The bartender waved it off. “Yes, perfectly fine, thank you. But usually people Apparate next to Gringotts or Flourish and Blott’s.”

“Sorry,” repeated Harry. “First time.”

 Tom edged by him. “Perfectly fine, perfectly fine,” he repeated before striding off into the Alley with a purposeful jounce to his walk.

He watched Tom walk away, perplexed—he had never seen the bartender away from the Leaky Cauldron—whether it be the crack of dawn or late in the evening, the grizzly man had always been there, polishing tumblers and chatting with the witches and wizards behind his bar. But even Tom had to run errands sometimes, he supposed.

This strange occurrence was only the first of many oddities that day. Eeylop’s Owl Emporium, though dark and cool and musty as always, was as deserted as the rest of the area. Its only denizens were hooting and rustling avians—even the shopkeeper was nowhere to be seen, despite the _OPEN_ sign over the door.

Harry browsed the aisles of cages while he waited for somebody to come to the counter. He passed speckled brown barn owls, eagle owls, snowy owls like his own Hedwig, even a tiny little bird like Ron’s Pig that threw itself at the cage bars and fluttered wildly in excitement as he watched. A giant black-and-white owl, with huge tufted brows that made it look quite disgruntled—marked eagle owl—glared at him with one round yellow eye.

He wandered the store for fifteen minute before losing patience. “Hello? Is anybody there?”

Silence answered him; but soon heaving footsteps creaked down a set of stairs Harry had never noticed before, and a man carrying a giant tottering pile of cages stumbled into sight.

“Sorry about that, didn’t know anybody was there,” the man—Eeylop?—panted. “Damned cages. Thanks. Bit hard to levitate them down the stairs.”

“Where should I put them?”

“Just over there. Yeah. There. Thanks.”

Harry floated them to where the man motioned and set them down but not without a rattling clash that set off a huge racket of indignant hoots and chirps.

“Can’t ever win,” the man shouted over the din. “ _SILENCIO!”_ Instantly, the store fell unnaturally quiet. “What did you need?”

“Er, I was looking for the owl treats but I couldn’t find them,” said Harry. “Where do you keep them?”

“I’ll get those for you,” said the man. “These critters are too danged smart. I gotta keep the treats under a lock _and_ a spell or else they’ll get into ‘em like _that.”_ He snapped his fingers at the last word, nodding meaningfully at Harry.  “Especially the little one and the eagle. That’s why we don’t usually carry those.”

Harry followed him to the counter where the man ducked out of sight and fiddled with some unseen apparatus.

“Whatcha doing here today, lad? Nobody’s ever here this time of year.”

“Supplies for Auror training and picking up a few things.” said Harry to the counter. “Where is everybody?”

“Auror training? You’re brave, lad. It’s the beginning of summer. People travel ‘round now so we folks ,here like to use these two weeks to do maintenance. Things’ll get busier ‘round noon too. You’re here mighty early.”

“Oh,” said Harry.

Things were much the same at the Apothecary and Madame Malkin’s and Flourish & Blott’s. Their shopkeepers and owners were seldom at the counter and Harry had to call them out; the neighboring stationary shop and Quidditch supplies’ owners were at Flourish & Blott’s amicably chatting when Harry entered.

 Gringotts’ large and imposing marble facade was the same on the outside and inside though. Two goblin guards in scarlet and gold uniforms, wielding long spears stood stiffly at the bronze entrance as they always had.

“Mr. Potter,” said the teller brusquely. “We have been expecting you. Griphook will be with you shortly.”

Harry was led into a rich, but sparsely decorated room with a table in the center. There was only one human sized chair so he sat in it; Griphook appeared a few minutes later carrying a stack of documents.

“Hello, Griphook,” said Harry politely. “I received an owl from Gringotts saying you wanted to see me?”

“Mr. Potter,” said the goblin, climbing into his high seat. “We are here to discuss the tranfer of the Potter holdings to you. Magically, you have already inherited, but since you have no living relatives, Gringotts will review the assets in question.” He coughed and cleared his throat. “As of 1998, the Potter family possesses one mansion, four houses, one summer cottage, a total of 103 million galleons, a collection of magical artifacts, three tracts of land, a seat on the Wizengamot, and an investment portfolio currently managed by Gringott.  Would you like to hear more about any of these?”

Harry’s glasses slipped down his nose. “This can’t be right. 103 _million_ galleons? There must be a mistake—I already inherited a vault. And what’s this Wizengamot seat?”

“Mr. Potter, Gringotts does not make mistakes,” the goblin reprimanded tartly. “The Potter family is very old and historically, has always held a great standing in wizarding society. Vault 687 was your father’s trust fund. He never came to inherit the Lordship. This is the family vault.

“If you wish to attend Wizengamot sessions, or bring bills to the table, you may. But if you do not, the seat will be deemed inactive.”

“Oh,” said Harry, still dumbstruck. “D-do I have to do anything here today?” he asked belatedly after a moment.

“Do you wish to see any of your holdings? Or receive the annual reports? We recommend that you review them every few years.”

“No, thanks.”

Griphook snapped his long, spindly fingers. “Then sign these,” said the goblin as a stack of parchment and a quill appeared on the table with a muffled thud.

As Harry scrawled his signature onto document after document, Griphook extracted another item from his person. “Oh yes—here is the Potter family ring. It should be worn to all Wizengamot meetings and brought to Gringotts for all transactions involving the family vault. Put it on to register it to you.”

The quill paused its scritch-scratching. “How…did you get that?” asked Harry, gripping the pen tightly. “My father should have been buried with it.” The gold ring, engraved with miniscule geometric runes, gleamed as brightly as it had on James Potter’s cold hand.

“The ring is enchanted to return to the vaults after its owner dies,” droned Griphook. “When the heir comes of age, he must return here to retrieve it and thus confirm his identity. If you are not truly Harry Potter…well, we shall enjoy the show.” The goblin bared his teeth in not at all reassuring smile. “Go on, Mr. Potter.”

He’d wiggled this ring from his dad’s finger and it had fallen easily over his thumb back then. The cold metal slipped on once more; all he needed was a pair of too-big boots to be playing dress-up again. But the ghosts of the past fell away when he had to squeeze it onto his index.

It glowed brightly for a moment and warmed, throwing spots of light over the stone walls before fading back to an ordinary old ring.

Griphook sighed glumly. “Very good. In case of destruction, misplacement, or damage, please contact Gringotts. Good day, Lord Potter.”

Griphook jumped down and with a pop, the completed paperwork vanished.

“I’ll just show myself out then,” said Harry when all the goblin did was look at him expectantly.

As soon as the door swung shut behind him, he tugged the leaden ring off and shoved it into his robes. Unfortunately, he couldn’t do the same for his thoughts, which hung sullen in his mind. The morning fog which hung over London had by now melted into a hot, sunny day, but Harry shuddered as he passed from Gringotts’ cool interior to the muggy street.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. A tall, dark-haired wizard watched him as he shoved by, but Harry ignored him. A few other witches and wizards drifted piecemeal through Diagon Alley now, breaking the morning silence with quiet chatter and footsteps.

The eerie feeling of the deserted Diagon Alley was gone, and with it, Harry’s desire to linger among the shops. He hurried down the street until he came to a dusty old shop at the very end—a place he had not been for seven years.

_Ollivanders: Makers of the Finest Wands Since 382 B.C._ , in faded gold script decorated the shop front; a single wand on a worn purple cushion was the sole denizen of the window.

He was transported to the past as he entered the dimly-lit store. All was as it had been. The magic tape measure lay abandoned on a single rickety chair, behind which were towering shelves upon shelves of boxes. The musty smell of old paper and dust and something more magical filled his nostrils.

The only evidence of time passing was himself—and that everything seemed strangely shrunken to him. The shop, small, even back then, now seemed positively cramped.

Ollivander ghosted up to him—shrunken and bent like everything else—and peered up at Harry with those strange moon pale eyes, that pierced him even through the crinkled eyes.

“Mr. Potter,” said Ollivander, his voice creaking like an old sofa. “Eleven inches, holly and phoenix feather. Nice and supple. Quite strange that you should visit today—when the owner of its brother was just here…”

Harry had never learned the identity of his brother wand’s owner—Ollivander had not revealed it seven years ago, and he had never cared to find out.

Oblivious to his thoughts, Ollivander peered at him and continued, “What would you be looking for today, Mr. Potter? I see you still possess that wand—and in good condition too…Good, good.”

He took a step back, unnerved by how Ollivander gazed straight at where his wand was hidden. “A new wand—a second one,” he blurted. “I can’t cast well with this one.”

Ollivander frowned. “Cannot cast well? The wand chooses the wizard, and yours has chosen you. It has served you to the fullest.”

“Yes, that’s the problem. There’s no control in my spells and I can’t cast dark-natured magic,” said Harry, pulling the wand out and handing it to the aged wandmaker.

Ollivander bent over it with a magnifying glass and twirled the wand in his knobbed hands, over and over. “ _Avis,_ ” he said suddenly, flicking the wand. A flock of twittering yellow birds appeared and gusted about the dusty room.

 “It seems to be in perfect working order,” said Ollivander, handing it back.

Harry sighed. “Yes—but see— _Avis_.” A veritable wall of tiny birds appeared at the flick of his wand. Harry, however, prepared for such an occurrence, immediately cast a blanket immobility charm and Banished them as quickly as they had appeared.

The wizened man’s glasses slipped down his nose. “I see, I see…” was all he could mumble. He peered closely at Harry, moon-pale eyes sharp. “The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter, and the issue here is with the wizard, not the wand. It seems to work a little _too_ well for you, no? It’d be betraying the craft …“

“Mr. Ollivander,” Harry pleaded. “I’m under a time-crunch here. You see, I have a couple job interviews and exams coming up, and I _need_ more control. Besides, my magic has always been like this and I don’t see it changing anytime in the future.”

Ollivander sighed. “If you insist, Mr. Potter.”

Barely a quarter hour later, Harry stood at the register, feeling a strange sense of _déjà vu_.

“That will be seven galleons,” said Ollivander. “Just like the holly and phoenix feather …Put this one to good use too, Mr. Potter.”

Once outside the shop, still blinking away the blinding sun, Harry Disapparated—unaware of the red eyes watching him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Were any of you fooled by Tom the bartender at the beginning? Sorry--couldn't resist. But our favorite character did appear in this chapter! Thanks for reading and please leave a review/kudos!


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